Things That I Can't Remember
by Cazrolime
Summary: Marble Hornets. The first transformation into the Masked Man. No actual masks, but a lot of freaky mind stuff to make up for it.


Thanks to this guy Alex's student movie, it looked like Tim would be forever traipsing in and out of the woods. You couldn't get a car up some of the trails they were using as locations. It just wasn't happening.

Tim didn't mind the exercise, though. He'd been up here a few times now – they were only a couple days into the shoot – and it already felt like he was entering a familiar routine. He only knew Alex, the movie's director, through their friend Brian; but the guy seemed easy to work with, even if his script had all the depth and believability of a Tommy Wiseau movie. Everything was simple. Tim would breeze through the shoot, be owed a beer for the favour and get to hide his grin at the _Marble Hornets_ opening night.

Piece of cake.

This evening, he was alone as he picked his way down the path back to his car. Brian had had to run early, something about a dentist appointment he'd forgotten. Alex was sticking around to shoot more footage with some of the other crew members. They'd offered to walk Tim back to his car, but he'd laughed it off. "Nah, I can find my way back."

The parking lot was only a little way off now. He could see reddening sky and asphalt through the trees.

The evening was warm, but it was also late, and most people had already cleared out. The lot was empty except for a couple of cars, a bike and a guy dressed in black, probably a hiker. Tim watched him out of idle curiosity; but he had to look down to navigate a thicket that was trying to eat his knees, and at some point the guy wandered off.

Tim made a leap of faith out of the thicket and onto solid asphalt, and stood there for a few moments, enjoying the warm breeze and knocking burrs off his jeans with the heels of his shoes. Trees clustered around the parking lot on every side, with only a gap for the road, and the setting sun had already vanished behind them. Cicadas were calling for it in their buzzy, scratchy voices. The lights scattered throughout the lot had yet to switch on.

It would be getting cold soon enough, but for the moment the muggy heat of the day was still heavy on everything.

Tim headed for his car, a beloved old three-door model, digging in his jeans pocket for the key. Then something caught his eye at the edge of the forest.

Instinctively, he looked towards it, slowing down. But there was nothing to see.

Huh. Probably a waving branch.

Tim stepped towards his car again, but as he did he shivered, from the oncoming chill and from an inexplicable sense that he was being watched. He wasn't exactly a paranoid guy; that instinct was usually trustworthy. But who the hell would want to spy on him?

Maybe the others had decided to wrap up their evening scene early and head home. Stopping beside his car, Tim turned again towards the forest.

"Hello? Guys?"

No answer. He searched for the place where he'd seen movement.

"Alex?"

**He should approach the forest.**

Well, maybe it was them and maybe it was just his imagination, but either way it was a good idea to check. Shoving his car key back into his pocket, he began to walk briskly across the parking lot, squinting into the shadows between the trees.

There wasn't much to see. He'd only been in the lot a few minutes, and already the darkness was making things shapeless and draining their colour. Around him, the bulbs in the floodlights were taking on a dull reddish glow, getting ready to turn on in full.

"Hello?"

**He should approach the forest, and not make a sound.**

On second thought, if someone was moving about in there and Tim was yelling, he wouldn't be able to hear them at all. He shut up and listened, frowning, still walking towards the trees. Even the cicadas were silent now, waiting for something to happen.

Right at the edge of the forest, he stopped, looking up. The sky was now a deep, dark blue and he could make out tangled branches against it, patches of light and shadow, but not much else.

One after another, the floodlights burst into life. Even though they were hardly bright, compared to the increasing darkness they were dazzling for a moment. The trees were lit up, throwing black shadows behind them.

The bark in front of Tim's face was fabric. The branches all twisted around each other and grew from a central point, bending like arms, twitching like fingers. The lighter area was a head, a head with no face, a head which he'd been looking up at and which from an impossible height was now looking straight down at him.

Tim opened his mouth to scream and choked instead, stumbling backwards, barely managing not to fall.

**He should stay where he was and not resist.**

_Fuck that._

Breathing hard, the scream still trying to rise in his throat, Tim span around and ran back to the car. His feet slammed against the asphalt as he pushed himself faster, faster. Then he hit the driver's window arms-first, and a second later he was scrabbling for his keys once again.

Just a second longer. His luck just needed to hold for a second.

He shoved the key at the hole. Shoved again and got it in. Twisted it frantically. Was torn away from the car by scratching, sprouting, branching arms.

This time he managed to scream.

**He should not resist.**

There was a confusion of darkness and close, looming shapes. He was being carried, drowning in wood and leaves, with no idea of which way was up. Thorns tore stinging lines on his skin. Strong branches knocked into him from all directions.

Then he fell, twisting his leg painfully, the forest floor like a punch to the gut. Blind with panic, he scrambled to his feet again.

**He should not resist.**

He couldn't see the lights of the parking lot. He ran on stumbling feet in a random direction. His hip ached from the landing. Branches barred his way, but he turned aside and carried on. The forest wasn't that big – there were people – he could get away – he _had to get away –_

Every way he turned were more branches, thick and black, closer and closer, his cage getting smaller and smaller. And the head without a face was there above him, neither closer nor further away, every time he dared to look up.

It hadn't just brought Tim into the forest. It was the forest. It was the whole fucking forest.

**He should not resist.**

The strength drained out of him, and he sank to his knees, shaking and gasping. Immediately, the branches closed around him more tightly, and he braced himself, waiting to be torn to pieces.

One touched his arm gently, and stayed there, like a friend offering comfort.

The sense of ease was so unexpected, so jarring, that Tim would have run from it if he'd still had the will to move. Another branch reached toward him, jagged finger-like twigs extended, and rested on his head. It moved. It was stroking his hair.

There was a rustling of dry leaves in the dead air. **Shh**, they said, wordless but unmistakeable. **Shhh**.

No matter how unnatural, no matter how frightening it was, Tim felt his own frantic heartbeat slowing, his panicky breaths evening out little by little. But he still couldn't keep his limbs from shaking, tense with the unanswerable need to escape. It was like being a child again, hugged by his mother after a horrifying nightmare – but still being trapped in that nightmare, half aware of her claws and the shadows behind her eyes.

The crackle of dry leaves was the only sound in existence. It was soft: so soft that he found himself straining to hear it. But behind it was nothing. No evening animals, no breeze, no distant grumble of traffic. Just persistent silence.

Nettles stung Tim's legs through his jeans. Somehow this was the alien sensation, and the fingerlike branches touching him seemed natural, familiar. His own body was a spongy, clumsy weight that he wished he could throw away, step right out of and be nothing but trunk and twig and the wind and the night.

Was this a change from his thoughts of a few seconds ago? It barely occurred to him to ask, let alone answer.

He should stand, so he did, brushing dirt and stones off his hands. The branches fell still, but the rustle-snap-hiss of dead leaves carried on. It was a constant noise, strong despite its quietness, almost physically pressing against him. He tilted and jerked his head as if it was water caught in his ear after being submerged. It refused to go away.

The forest seemed dimmer than before; not darker, but drab and forgettable, as if the way it looked didn't matter any more. There were people, important people, out of sight and sound but surrounded by trees, no longer children but with a lot left in them. There were roots beneath him, reassuringly deep, and a vague sensation of warmth which he realised was a complete lack of temperature.

And there was something dreadful. Something unnatural. At first it was just an uneasiness in his stomach: something was wrong, but he wasn't sure what. Then he frowned in thought and realised. A breathy retching noise came out of his throat as he shook his head and brought his hands up to cover his face.

But he didn't have time to stay here. His suffering was irrelevant. There was more to do. He should retrace his steps to the shoot. He should do it as quickly and quietly as he could.

But his face. He had to hide it. He was aware of it as if it was a diseased thing, something to cut away.

He had to go.


End file.
